Their empty victual-wagons up the streetOver the bridge dreadfully sound and sway;...Their eyes, as hanged men's, turning the wrong way;And nothing on their backs, or heads, or feet.One sees the ribs and all the skeletonsOf their gaunt horses; and a sorry sightAre the torn saddles, crammed with straw and stones.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »

A man who keeps a diary pays,Due toll to many tedious days;...But life becomes eventful--then,His busy hand forgets the pen.Most books, indeed, are records lessOf fulness than of emptiness.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »